Scattered
by chrysalis escapist
Summary: alone in a hotel room, so empty of herself ... Stella, and a bit of Mac


**Disclaimer: I don't own the CSI:NY characters**

**This is the result of ****several sleepless nights so it's probably a bit weird.**

**For **_**afrozenheart412 **_**with thanks for willing to discuss home yet again :).**

Ceiling. She lies staring at it until it seems to start spinning. Around, and around. Dusk in the corners passing as she looks on. Around? She closes her eyes, so tired. But it keeps spinning. No rest. Wall, wall, wall, wall … the window … she lets her left arm drop onto the bed … over there. Door, that's more important … usually … her right arm hits the sheets. There. She frowns. Is it just a feeling that the door is always to the right of the bed in a hotel? Have to know where things are … which way to go … _where I am. _Her hands meet over her head, pointing behind her. _Picture, probably dust on the frame too._

_Better than ashes._

_Don't blame them, I mean, who does clean everything so thoroughly every day?_

She smiles a little. _Mac._

He pulls the door shut behind him and looks up, away from the fumes and exhaust of cars, into moonlit clouds, _which are probably made up of the same exhaust … and ashes. _He sighs.

With a sigh she feels for the light switch. Feels like groping through ashen darkness. Closing her eyes a split second too late. Burning, her muscles seem to make a growling sound, annoyed with her, as she quickly squeezes her eyes shut. Darkness again. Lit by sounds. A crackle of red, a hiss of blue. Green would be nice, calming probably … _think green._

_Sea waves.__ And …_

Mac closes his eyes. For a moment, listening. The endless sounds, of cars. White turning red as they pass. Burning away.

Slowly she opens her eyes again. Blinking. That groaning sound again. Blinking. A tear escapes, slowly trickles down her right temple. _Makes them feel so dry, this air. _Air of restlessness_._ She rubs her hands over her face. Pulls them away, under her chin, pushes it up.

Picture over the bed. Over her head, on its head. _Change of perspective. That's what it should be, staying in a hotel._ She looks on, piecing together blue and green … something else on her mind … world upside down. Another tear. _Must have gotten ashes into my eyes. Stupid._

That's what it is, having to stay in a hotel. She studies the picture. Nice scenery, _too nice._ Even upside down. Who chooses that stuff? _What would I choose? What will I choose?_

Mac turns right, not tired enough to sleep. Maybe walking will help. If not it'll at least pass the time. He looks up at the lantern lights. Little shadows flicking around them. Almost like ashes. A cloud of ashes. So close. So close to turning to ashes.

She lets her eyes wander around. _Have all the choices again. _She closes her eyes again. _Except to have it the way it was._ Eyes open, unseeing. Not seeing what is there but what was. Specters of red and grey floating past. Curling and twisting, crackling and hissing. Invading her reality, her existence. Burning away. The light. She stares. The ceiling above.

_Wait, this room _is_ spinning. _She blinks, shaking her head. The spinning increases. _Oh, very clever._ She pushes herself up into a sitting position. Closer to the lamp. Eyes it. Like a carousel, light bulbs riding on its arms. And a spider's thread trailing behind._ Must be a draught somewhere._ She slumps back onto the bed.

Slipping, the feeling jerks her eyes open. _Damn. _So close to falling asleep. _"Go home. Get some rest." Yeah, look who's talking. _But she's trying. Counting sheep … _or motes of dust, or ashes?_

_Or mistakes._

He waits at a traffic light. Red, warning. _If I hadn't sent her home …. _The cars' lights flicker in the corners of his eyes. So much, so much that could have happened. Possibilities flickering at every corner of reality. Drawing him into a resonating shiver.

She wraps another sheet around herself but it doesn't help. Shifting. _Why didn't I see that possibility? _Left, right, uneasy, tossing. Another movement in the hope that maybe the arm there, the leg in an angle, maybe it makes a difference. Tugging, nudging; pushing, pulling … all the possibilities … you should have …. _How could I not see that? How could I think he was …. '_It's your job to be suspicious'_. Excuses! Suspicious of a child …_

Quicksand of thoughts. Crumpled sheets.

Staring at the ceiling again. Red flickering by. Dripping down the walls. Her eyes on that picture again. Colors like the music in a supermarket. Her hands on her ears. She throws herself around. _I could have made a difference … if only I had seen, if only I had looked … _that_ is my job._

_It was right next door._

She curls into the sheets. Blinking again. 'Go home …' _that doesn't mean, leave all your training behind._

Mac stops at another traffic light. He had wanted her to get some rest. _Every once in a while every one of us needs to go home, to the place where you can shut it all out for a while. There's nothing wrong with that. Don't blame yourself. _But he feels like he has sent her into this mess.

_You couldn't have known what would happen. And if I hadn't been home … what would have changed … he had been waiting, hoping, all that time … waiting for someone to see … what could have changed …__ what I could have changed. But not you._

It'd still be gone, again. Her eyes on that picture, again. Who gets to choose? Where you live, what your room looks like. Parents, grown-ups. _Nuns._ Sometimes they ask how you would like it. How you would like _your _home. The place where you can feel at home.

Where she had made herself a home. Somehow smaller, darker than the last. Not as open. Cocooning in the sheets. It doesn't work. They feel moist around her head. Brushing over her temples, her eyes. Frustrated arms hit the bed. _This isn't me._

_This isn't me. _She shakes her head angrily, curls flying. _What's the matter with me? This isn't like me. Or is it? Like me. What is like me? Did I make my home … or does my home make me? _Did_ it make me …? _And now that it's gone, again …

_I remember this feeling, remember it too well. Where do I belong? 'It's okay. My real mom didn't want me anyway.' Oh, don't you believe that, please don't ever believe that._

_But what did I believe? Why I was sent away, what do I believe why I lost my home … why I couldn't find one … why I keep losing it …_

Thoughts, flickering, red and orange. Slipping, falling. She gasps. The hissing of flames, howling and shrieking, specters. That sound … wailing, like there are souls caught in the fire. Lost.

Lost ground. She feels she's falling. Clinging to the sheets, holding on. Sweaty hands. Trembling breath. _Got to get out of here._

Fire escape.

Mac looks at the green sign. Even more aware than usual of the necessity of knowing where it is. Emergency exit. He suddenly wonders if the soft green light could have any calming effect. Take a breath and think.

She stands at the door, letting in the night air. Letting it into her lungs. And out again. Drawn by an instinct. That feeling of falling, she closes her eyes. Into the darkness, the wind hissing through her curls. The same air, the same air as in the fire. A different sound. The wind is tugging at her, wrapping her clothes around her. Fresh air, free.

She takes a step, and another.

Ahead. Up here.

Things floating past. Bits of paper, lights, thoughts.

Caught in the wind.

She spreads her arms. Closes her eyes. Lets the wind blow past her. Her head held high. Breathes in the sounds of this city. Caught in the wind.

She lets go, releases herself into it. Lights blowing past her. The wind whistling through the streets. The sound of organ pipes. She looks down. Down at the lights pulsing through the streets. Red and white, sometimes blue.

Another breath. Looking down, so far down. Looking like ants, the squares and lines, looking like machinery. Indifferent. That's what it looks like _but I know someone cares._ She looks down, all those lights, _cares about all those lights._ A feeling sneaks into her, she looks down, into the lights.

He looks up, wondering if she's still awake. Almost sure that she is, lights on or off. Concludes that it won't hurt to look, look closer.

She turns around at a sound she hadn't quite expected. But knows immediately who made it.

And he can sense her smile in the dark.

"I kind of had this feeling I'm not the only one who can't sleep." he says, feeling her arms wrap around him.

Another sound. "What have you got there?" she asks with a warm smile, looking at the bag in his hand.

"Thought I'd bring something along, just in case." And he pulls a bottle of Greek wine from the bag, followed by two glasses. Carefully he sets them on the ground. "Would have brought candles too but that seemed kind of inappropriate at the moment." She chuckles. Oh, how he loves that sound.

They sit down next to each other. He pours the wine, lifts his glass. "May you find a new home soon!"

"Thank you." She looks around, the patterns of lights rising all around, always someone awake here. Changing patterns, alive. Lives scattered all over this city. She takes a deep breath, familiar sounds. "You know what," with a motion of her arm she embraces the view, retrieves the feeling from before, "I think _this _is my home."

He sees her eyes gleam softly. Green, calm.

* * *

Thank you for your time. I'm very happy about anyone who read through, and I hope it was worth it. In case you were wondering, it seemed fitting to set this after episode 4x16: Right next door.

I'd really love to know what you think of it. All reviews are appreciated, and replied to if logged.


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